Anterograde
by annonwrite
Summary: Neal suffers an injury that prevents him from being able to work for the FBI. The Marshals want to put him back in prison. Peter isn't sure he can stop them. As for Neal, he forgets.
1. Chapter 1

Then – Neal

Adrenaline hummed through Neal's veins, making his palms sweat as he pressed them and his back firmly against the wall.

"Alex," he hissed.

He held still and strained to hear a response. Nothing. The panic in his gut rose a few notches. At least when he was working with the FBI, there was always back up around the corner. But at the moment he was off the clock.

"Alex," he said again, louder this time.

He started to duck around the corner, but froze when he heard footsteps. Not light, careful Alex-sized footsteps. Heavy, threatening footsteps of someone who didn't seem to care that Neal knew he was coming.

Neal froze in place. Barely breathed. Prayed for Alex to make her reappearance so they could get the hell out of there.

The owner of the footsteps appeared. A masked man with a large crowbar. He saw Neal a split second after Neal saw him. It was long enough for Neal's fight or flight to kick in, and he choose flight.

His last thought as the man tackled him to the ground and raised the crowbar over his head was that if this guy didn't kill him, Peter certainly would.

Now – Peter

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to look over the evidence again. The answer to the check fraud case is right in front of his face. It _has_ to be. But he can't see it.

Neal would see it. Neal would have put the entire puzzle together while Peter was still trying to figure out which piece was an edge and which was a corner.

But Neal isn't here.

That's a big part of the problem. The longer Peter stares at the evidence reports, the more he wonders how things are going at home. Shoving the paperwork aside, he picks up the phone to call El. He has already dialed the first six digits and his finger is hovering over the seventh when he sighs and hangs up. They're trying to define a new normal. Peter calling multiple times a day when he's supposed to be working can't be normal.

The phone rings as soon as the handset is back on its base, making Peter jump. In the second before the caller ID registers, he hopes it's his wife, responding to some sixth sense that he needs to hear from her. But the number is unfamiliar.

"This is Peter Burke."

"Peter, this is Carlos Rodriguez with the U.S. Marshals."

Peter frowns at the phone. "How can I help you, Deputy Rodriguez?"

"My team and I would like to set up a meeting with you sometime this week."

His stomach clenches. "Regarding…?"

"Regarding Neal Caffrey."

Damn. "What about Neal?"

"I'd prefer we wait to discuss this in person."

"And I'd prefer you tell me what I'm walking into. Or I can ask your supervisor, if you prefer that."

Rodriguez sighs. "We need to discuss the changes to Caffrey's arrangement."

Peter's pulse picks up its pace. "What changes?"

"The agreement was that he'd be released from prison as long as he was working for the FBI, correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"And Mr. Caffrey is not currently working for the FBI and won't be for the foreseeable future?"

"Well, no, but—"

"We need to discuss that discrepancy."

"He's not working because he's injured! I have his medical records, doctors' notes, and—"

"Please bring all of that to the meeting. We'll also need to discuss the mysterious circumstances surrounding Mr. Caffrey's injury."

 _Damn_. Peter has nothing on Neal's attack. Nothing other than a panicked phone call from someone he's pretty sure was Alex and the address of a warehouse that had been long abandoned by the time the FBI and paramedics showed up.

He's known all along that questions would be asked.

But that doesn't mean he has answers.

"Fine," he says. "When and where?"

"How's Wednesday at nine? We can come to your office."

Peter checks his calendar, but finds it disappointingly empty. "Wednesday at nine it is."

Two days.

Not long enough.

 **A/N** **:** Thank you for reading! More soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Then – Elizabeth

El forced her attention back to the book in her lap. She'd picked it up from the small waiting room bookshelf three days ago, but was only on page five and couldn't remember a thing about the characters or the plot. Just as she started reading a paragraph she thought she'd read before, a nurse walked in.

"How's our patient this morning?"

This nurse with the short, graying hair and ever-present smile was Linda. El was starting to learn the nurses and their schedules, along with her favorites and not-so-favorites. Linda was a favorite. El forced a smile. "The same."

Linda hummed while she took Neal's blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. "Very good, Neal. You're doing great."

She was the only one who talked to Neal even though he couldn't respond. Something about that warmed El's heart. Gave her hope.

"It's nice out there this morning," Linda said while she checked the display on his IV pump. "The sun feels so good after the rain."

It wasn't clear if she was talking to El or Neal, but it didn't matter. El was just glad for a break from the quiet. She'd sent Peter back to work. His cases were starting to stack up, and Neal would need him more if he woke up. _When_ he woke up. But the silence left in her husband's absence was almost enough to drive her crazy.

"Now Neal," Linda said, "physical therapy is coming to see you today. To get those legs moving a little. You rest up before then, okay?"

"Thank you, Linda."

The nurse smiled at her. "You're welcome. And how about you? How are you doing today?"

"Oh, I'm fine."

She glanced at the book in El's lap. "You were reading that page two days ago."

"Guilty," she said, giving up and closing the book.

"You should get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

It was close to accurate. Since Peter had gotten the phone call, El had been too worried about Neal to sleep more than a couple of hours here and there. "I'll try," she promised.

Linda's smile widened. "Good. I'll be back later, but press the call button if you need anything before then."

El thanked her and reached out to brush the backs of her fingers against Neal's cheek. She'd have to ask about a razor and shaving cream later. The dark stubble was too long and stood out in contrast to Neal's pale skin and heavily bandaged head. It was all wrong.

For now, she leaned back in her chair and watched the rise and fall of Neal's chest, the steady rhythm pulling her toward sleep. Her eyes were almost shut when something snapped her back awake.

She sat straight up. It almost looked like Neal had moved. It was probably just wishful thinking; something she imagined in that soft, hopeful place between awake and asleep.

But then he moved again. And moaned.

El's heart drummed stacatto against her ribs. "Neal? Can you hear me?"

He turned his head toward her and opened his eyes. Just a crack, and only for a split second, but that tiny sliver of blue was more than enough. She frantically pressed his call button.

"Neal, stay with me, okay? Try to open your eyes again."

It took a second, but he did, blinking hard. He reached for his head, jostling the cast on his left arm and the IV in his right.

"Don't move," she said, gently stilling his arms. "You're okay. Just take it easy."

He squinted at her, lines of pain evident around his eyes. "El?"

His voice was hoarse and weak, but it was there.

She choked back a sob. He was awake. He was okay. "Oh Neal, I'm so glad you're awake." She picked up the Styrofoam cup of water the nurses insisted on filling each morning for Neal, which had seemed so pointless until this moment. She held the straw up to his lips. He took a long swallow.

"Did I forget something?" Linda asked before she was even back in the room. "I could have…oh! Neal, you're awake!" She rushed over and pressed a button to raise the head of his bed. "It's so good to see those pretty blue eyes of yours! I'm going to go page Dr. Schneider. She'll be so thrilled!" Linda patted El's arm and hurried out of the room.

Neal took another sip of water and closed his eyes again. El panicked, not ready to face the uncertainty of silence again so soon.

But then he spoke, eyes still closed, voice still weak, but much less hoarse. "What happened?"

She didn't want to say it out loud, as if saying it could make it more real than it already was. But she placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "You were attacked. They broke your arm and your skull. The doctors had to do surgery on the bleeding and swelling in your brain. But you're going to be okay."

"How long…" His voice cracked and El touched the straw to his lower lip so he could take another sip. "How long was I out?"

"A few days."

Dr. Schneider walked in, the click of her heels followed closely by the soft squeak of Linda's shoes. She nodded to Elizabeth on her way to Neal's side. "Mr. Caffrey, are you with us?"

He cracked his eyes open before squeezing them shut again. "Call me Neal."

The smile from the always-clinical neurologist was a nice surprise. "Okay, Neal. How are you feeling?"

"Head hurts."

If Neal was openly admitting to pain, it had to be bad. El rubbed a thumb over his shoulder where his hospital gown had slipped a bit.

Dr. Schneider turned to Linda. "There's an order for additional pain medication in his chart."

Linda nodded and rushed back out the door.

The doctor removed a penlight from her jacket pocket. "I'm going to ask you a few questions and do a few quick tests, then we'll let you get some more rest, okay? Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital."

"Good. Do you know who's here with you?"

"Elizabeth."

El nodded at the doctor and smiled. He was awake. He was okay.

"Can you open your eyes for me? I need to check your pupils."

It happened so fast. One second, Dr. Schneider was sliding her penlight toward Neal's right eye, and everything was okay. The next second, he was crying out, gagging, and throwing up the few sips of water into the emesis basin Dr. Schneider placed at his chin.

"What happened?" El asked, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.

"Photosensitivity," Dr. Schneider said. "Very common following head injuries, along with nausea and vomiting."

The fact that it was common didn't make El feel any better.

The doctor waited another second or two, then set the basin aside and reached up to turn off the light over his bed. "Sorry about that, Neal," she said. "I turned off the light. Can you try opening your eyes again? I promise no penlight this time."

Neal moaned, but did as he was told. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't you worry about that." Dr. Schneider checked both eyes, but left the penlight out of it. "Better without the light on?"

"Yes."

At that moment, Linda returned with Neal's medication. "Here we go." She cleaned the injection port to his IV and then inserted the syringe.

It only took a few seconds before some of the pain lines on Neal's face disappeared. El breathed a sigh of relief and thanked Linda, who left to dispose of the syringe and empty the basin.

Dr. Schneider reached for Neal's right hand. "Squeeze my hand for me, okay?" After a pleased nod, she asked him to push each of his feet against her hands, leaving his casted and elevated left arm alone.

"One last thing. I'm going to tell you a word. I want you to try to remember this word for later, okay? The word is 'cloud.'"

"Cloud," Neal echoed.

"Good. I'll ask you about that later." Dr. Schneider turned to El. "Everything looks good. He's scheduled for another MRI tonight. I'll go over those results with you tomorrow, but for now he's doing great." She put her attention back on her patient. "How is your head feeling now, Neal?"

"Better." He closed his eyes again.

"Great. I'll be back to check on you, but for now you should get some rest."

"'Kay," he whispered.

El thanked Dr. Schneider and returned to her seat. She bit her bottom lip, wanting to say more to Neal, but not wanting to keep him awake. Finally, she settled for letting her thumb brush that exposed spot just above his clavicle.

"El?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"Is Peter okay?"

She smiled. "He wasn't with you when you got hurt. He's just fine." It was only then that she realized she could break some seriously good news. "I know you're tired, but do you want to call him real quick? I'll put him on speaker. He'll be so happy to hear from you."

Neal's lips quirked into a small smile. "Yeah. Call him."

She retrieved her cell phone, selected her husband's cell from her recent calls, and put it on speaker next to Neal's pillow.

Peter answered on the second ring. "El? What's wrong?"

She didn't say anything, just squeezed Neal's shoulder.

"Hey, Peter."

A beat of silence. Then, "Neal? Is that you?"

"The one and only."

Peter whooped. El laughed. Neal smiled.

"El, I'm on my way, okay? I'll be there in a few minutes."

"He's okay. Drive safely, hon," El said before hanging up.

The smile on Neal's face melted slowly while his breathing evened out into sleep.

A few minutes later, Linda returned with another emesis basin. She placed it on the table near Neal's cup of water. "Just in case he needs it," she said.

"Thank you so much, Linda."

As the nurse left, Neal stirred and turned back toward El. He opened his eyes, blinking and squinting a little less in the dim room than he had in the light. His eyes had never been as blue as they were right then.

"El?"

"Yes?"

"What happened?"

A shiver ran through El like a gust of winter air had blown through the room.

He frowned down at his cast. "Why am I in the hospital?"

She swallowed hard. "Do you remember what I said a few minutes ago? That you were attacked?"

"Attacked?"

"Neal, look at me. Dr. Schneider told you to remember a word. Do you remember what word she said?"

 _Please please please_ …

But when Neal's eyes met hers, they were clouded with confusion. "Who?"

A tear slipped down El's cheek so hard and fast it startled her. She pressed his call button, wiped at her eye, and forced a smile.

"It's okay, sweetie."

But it wasn't okay at all.

###

 **A/N** : Thank you for reading! More soon.

Someone asked when this takes place. I didn't pick a specific time, but probably sometime in S2 or S3? Definitely not S4 or later because I'm not that far through the show yet!


	3. Chapter 3

Now – Neal

The room is dark. Too dark to be June's place with its skylights beneath the city that never sleeps. He doesn't remember falling asleep in a place that isn't home, but the bed is warm and comfortable, so it can't be all bad.

He stretches and rolls onto his side. Through touch, he locates a nightstand and a lamp. The light is soft, but still makes him squint against bolts of pain that shoot through his brain. It takes a second for the pain to back down enough that he can look around.

It's Peter and El's guest room, he realizes. But not exactly. Thick curtains that weren't there before cover the windows. A suitcase Neal recognizes from June's house rests in the corner of the floor. A small collection of orange and white prescription bottles decorate the nightstand, and they all display Neal's name.

Possibilities whir through his mind. Had he been drugged? Are Peter and El okay?

As he goes to get out of bed, his right hand falls on a notebook next to his pillow. There's a sticky note on the front cover with his own handwriting.

 _READ THIS WHEN YOU WAKE UP._

Curious, he opens it and finds more of his words in black ink. There's a date at the top of the page, but it means nothing to him. So he just starts reading.

 _You were attacked and suffered a traumatic brain injury. You have anterograde amnesia, which means you remember almost everything before the attack, but can't form new memories. Basically, you can remember years ago, but not yesterday, and you won't remember today or tomorrow._

He blinks hard. Amnesia? He thought that only happened on soap operas. He keeps reading.

 _Your memories go fuzzy and disappear every night. Sometimes it's more often than that if you're tired or have a headache, so trust Peter and El when they want you to take a pain pill._

 _This notebook is a coping strategy from occupational therapy. You're supposed to write down what you want to remember since your brain can't do it for you._

There's a note in the margin in blue ink, obviously added at a later date.

 _It helps. Write as much as you can. Take this notebook everywhere in case you forget._

The black ink continues, explaining that he's been staying with Peter and El since he got out of the hospital. That they're trying medications and therapies, but there's no guarantee his memory will ever return to normal. There's one last note at the bottom of the page.

 _Now flip to the back of the notebook and read the notes from yesterday to be ready for today._

It's strange seeing page after page of notes he doesn't remember writing. Some are about new doctors and therapists, some are about Peter and El and visits from Mozzie and June. One note stands out from the others, written in El's neat print. It says he had a bad headache and ended up in the emergency room, unable to write, but she didn't want him to miss a day. He runs one finger over the heart and her loopy signature at the bottom of the entry before turning the page.

Almost two months separate the first date in the notebook from the last. Something like grief stabs at him when he realizes those days are gone. That he's holding all that remains.

His phone is on the nightstand, plugged in by a cord that disappears behind the headboard. He wakes the phone and checks the date, verifying that this is yesterday's entry.

 _Something's up with Peter. He asked a lot of questions about the accident today. As far as I can see, he hasn't asked a lot before, at least not enough to make me write about it. Try to get more information._

 _You were pretty nauseous today. Probably the new medication (see note from Thursday). El made ginger tea that helped._

 _Neurofeedback treatment tomorrow. 11:00, with Peter. See the note from last week's session. I don't think it's working._

He flips back to the two referenced entries and reads up on both the new medication and the neurofeedback, but the notes about electrodes and brainwaves just make his head hurt worse.

He closes the notebook and sets it near his phone. He pads across the carpet to the door. When he opens it, Peter and El are talking downstairs.

"Honey, they're not going to send him back to jail," El says. "He got hurt. That's not his fault."

Neal holds perfectly still. Barely breathes. Strains to hear Peter's response.

"Maybe not, but what am I supposed to say he was doing at that warehouse? I have no clue. Whatever it was, it wasn't FBI business. I can't lie for him."

"Tell them you don't know."

Peter sighs. "If the Marshals think Neal was going behind my back, that's not going to do him any favors."

"They _can't_ put him in jail. He has OT and PT and the neurofeedback sessions and appointments with his neurologist and his diet—"

"The Marshals don't care about any of that, hon. They don't care about him getting better. They probably think he's less of a danger to society just like he is."

"That's terrible." This time it's El's turn to sigh. "What are you going to do?"

A pause. "I don't know. But I only have until tomorrow to figure it out."

Neal hurries back into the guest bedroom – his room, apparently – and opens the notebook. It's not secure. El has obviously had access to the notebook, and Peter could, too. But there's no way he can forget what he just heard.

He writes a quick summary and finds it hard to believe he won't remember all of this tomorrow. Then again, maybe he thought that same thing when he wrote yesterday.

On his way out of the room, he catches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is much shorter than he usually keeps it. He wonders if they had to shave his head. He turns and notices he's skinnier than usual, too. He should make a note to work out more.

This time, Peter and El's conversation is something about noodles made out of zucchini, so Neal heads downstairs, holding the banister when the descent makes him a little dizzy.

"Hey, good morning," Peter says before taking a sip of coffee.

"Morning, Neal," El says from her perch at the counter. "Did you read the notebook?"

Neal uses his pointer finger and thumb to pinch his arm, just in case this is all a dream. Just in case he can wake up. But nothing changes. "Yeah. I did."

She smiles. "Good. How are you feeling this morning?"

The headache is still there, but the nausea from yesterday's note seems to be gone. "My head hurts a little."

Peter sets his coffee mug aside and checks the label on a prescription bottle before handing Neal a small white pill along with a glass of water.

"Thank you," he says after he swallows it.

"You and Peter need to leave for a neurofeedback session in about an hour. Why don't you go shower? I'll make egg white omelets for breakfast."

The way she says it makes this all seem so normal. Then again, after two months, this probably is normal for them. A new normal.

An hour later, Neal is showered and dressed, comfortably full from El's omelet and ginger tea, and clutching his notebook to his chest.

Even though it's a cloudy day, El slides a pair of sunglasses onto his face. "Sunglasses make everything better," she says, standing on her tiptoes to place a gentle kiss just above the bridge of his nose. She gives Peter a kiss on the lips and pushes them out the door.

"So, no work today?" Neal asks once they're en route.

"Jones and Diana are holding down the fort without me."

"They have to do that a lot?"

There's a cab with its flashers on in front of them, so Peter switches lanes. "El had some events she couldn't reschedule, like today. I have plenty of PTO that I take when needed. We make it work."

"Thank you," Neal says. "I'm sorry you guys have to do all of this."

"Hey." Peter glances over at him. "No apologies. El and I are happy to help. You're like family, more so now than ever."

He picks at a loose thread on his pants. They aren't familiar, but they are comfortable. He wonders if he picked them out. "What about me? I don't work for the bureau anymore?"

Peter nods to the notebook in his lap. "There's probably a note about that in there. You tried a couple of weeks ago, as soon as your neurologist cleared you to return to some activity. It…didn't go very well."

Neal rips off the Band-Aid. "What do the Marshals have to say about that?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? They don't care that I'm serving out my sentence eating El's omelets and writing in my diary and running up astronomical healthcare bills?"

"No, they don't, and neither should you. Just concentrate on getting better, okay?"

So Peter's lying to him. Maybe all of this is more normal than he thought.

By evening, Neal is tired and his memories are starting to slip away. He lies on his bed with Satchmo on his left and a vaguely bad feeling about tomorrow on his right, but can't remember why. It isn't until he opens the notebook and reads today's note about the possibility of jail that he remembers. But it's not really remembering. It's more like checking the cheat sheet for a test he can't study for.

He picks up a pen and writes himself two instructions for the next day.

 _1\. Fake a terrible headache. Fake a seizure. Fake anything bad enough to make Peter stay home from work and from his appointment with the Marshals. Buy yourself some time._

 _2\. Show today's notes to Mozzie. You need his help._

 **Note** : Thank you for reading! More soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Then – Elizabeth

The decision for Neal to go home with the Burkes after his discharge from the hospital was obvious. June had offered for Neal to return home under her care, but Neal was Peter's responsibility. Even more than that, El couldn't bear the thought of letting him out of her sight for a good long while.

"Home sweet home," El said as she unlocked the front door and held it open.

Peter ushered Neal through the door, one arm hovering inches away from the younger man's back, just in case.

Satchmo barked a greeting to his newly returned family, and Neal's hands went straight to his ears.

"Satchmo, no," Peter said as he closed the door. "Quiet."

The dog obeyed with a confused tip of the head.

"Sorry, sweetie," El said, putting a hand on Neal's arm, wishing she had thought to put Satchmo in the backyard for a few minutes.

Neal's sensitivity to sound wasn't quite as bad as his sensitivity to light, but it was still a problem. Ever so slowly, he removed his hands from his ears but left the sunglasses in place. "It's okay, Satch," Neal said with a forgiving pat to the dog's head.

"The guest room is all set up for you," Peter said. "Do you want to go get some rest?"

Neal nodded once and looked up the stairs. The problem was that the steps were narrow, which meant Neal would have to go up them on his own.

"Take your time," El said. "Be careful."

In his right hand, Neal gripped the banister so tightly his fingers went white. His left hand pressed flat against the brick wall. He managed to climb the first step, right foot then left. The second was a little slower, but he made it. By the time he hit the third step, he dropped to his knees, palms flat on the step in front of him. His sunglasses slipped off his face, and his eyes were squeezed tight.

"Neal, what's going on?" Peter asked. He sounded about three seconds away from carrying the man straight back to the hospital.

Neal spoke without moving an inch. "Did you ever see Harry Potter?"

"The movie?" El asked, confused.

"Yeah." He swallowed hard. "Remember the moving staircases?"

Then it made sense, and El winced in sympathy at what Neal must be seeing and feeling. "Just rest. Take as long as you need, okay?"

"Wish I had Potter's wand right about now," he muttered.

The human brain was tragically amazing. Neal could remember details from years ago, but couldn't remember a single thing about yesterday. He could remember a children's movie he'd probably seen once, but couldn't remember what happened to him even though he'd been told a hundred times.

Sometimes when she couldn't sleep, El's brain slipped to thoughts of the attack and she was grateful he couldn't remember that particular night.

Neal took a deep breath and opened his eyes, blinking a few times.

"Okay?" Peter asked.

In lieu of a response, Neal gripped the banister and pulled himself back to his feet. El grabbed the fallen sunglasses so he wouldn't trip or step on them.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let me fall."

Peter put his hands on Neal's shoulders. "Feel that?"

"Yeah."

"I'm right behind you. I'm not going to let you fall."

That seemed to be the assurance Neal needed. He started climbing again, wavering a few times, but not quitting. When he made it to the top, he pitched forward onto his knees again, shaking slightly and clutching at the ground with his fingertips.

"Good job, Neal," Peter said. "Let me help you the rest of the way, okay?"

With strength and care, Peter knelt and slipped Neal's arm over his own shoulders, wrapping an arm around his CI's back and lifting him to his feet. Neal leaned heavily, his head coming to rest near Peter's neck.

Before the attack, Peter and Neal _wanted_ to trust each other, and sometimes they did. Most of the time they did. But now Neal seemed to trust Peter implicitly. What other choice did he have?

El hurried into the guest bedroom ahead of them so she could pull back the covers. Peter set Neal on the bed, and he all but collapsed against the pillows.

"I'll go get his pain pills and some water," Peter said while El helped Neal get settled and tucked under the covers.

"Thanks, hon."

She sat on the edge of the bed and Neal rolled on his side toward her, like she was a magnet. She ran her fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the areas that were still bandaged. He studied her with pain-filled eyes and toyed absently with the fabric at the bottom of her shirt.

"What else can we get you?" she asked.

"Can you close the blinds? Please?"

El looked up. The blinds were closed, but afternoon sunlight poked through the slats. "They are closed. But we'll find something to cover them, and we'll order some blackout curtains, okay?"

Neal nodded and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

She patted his arm and stood to look in the closet for a blanket or another temporary window covering.

"El?"

It was the way he said that one syllable. Hesitant. Unsure. His memory was starting to slip. She sighed and headed back to the bed. The wrinkle in his forehead was the one from confusion, not pain. "Yeah, sweetie?"

"Why am I at your house?"

"You got hurt. A brain injury. Your memory isn't doing so great, but Peter and I are taking care of you."

"What did I forget?"

Yes, she could explain anterograde amnesia. The science. The details. But that always seemed to make him sad. It was a harsher reality than the one she wanted to give him. Instead, she asked, "What do you remember?"

"Remember?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Any memory. A good one."

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I remember the beach."

"Tell me about it."

"My dad had a surfboard." He smiled with his eyes still closed. "I fell off that thing a thousand times. Swallowed half the ocean. But when I managed to stay up, I felt like I was flying."

She watched as the wrinkle in his forehead disappeared. "Sounds nice. Tell me more."

"I begged to have ice cream for dinner. Said I would even have strawberry because it had fruit. My dad caved, and it gave me the worst stomachache, but I wouldn't admit it because no kid complains about ice cream for dinner."

"That sounds about right," she said with a laugh.

"I remember digging in the sand like I was digging to China. I…" The words were heavy as he started to lose the battle with sleep. "I remember the sound of the waves. I remember…"

His breathing deepened and evened out. El hoped those memories followed him into his dreams.

Peter returned, a pill bottle in one hand and a water bottle in the other. El held a finger up to her lips and nodded toward the hall. Her husband set the bottles on the nightstand and followed.

"He okay?" Peter asked once the door was open just enough that they could hear Neal if he needed them.

"Yeah. His memory was starting to slip, then he fell asleep."

She circled her arms around her husband's waist. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

"He needs the rest."

She let her head fall against his chest. "What are we going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he doesn't remember. If he doesn't get better. What are we going to do?"

Peter folded his hands against her back. "Let me check the CI chapter of my FBI manual. I'm sure there's protocol for this situation."

Despite herself, Elizabeth smiled. "Funny. But really. What are we going to do?"

He was quiet for a minute. "Neal has to take this one day at a time. Maybe that's how we should take it, too."

El nodded and tried to focus on today, on surfboards and strawberry ice cream, and not the vast unknown of tomorrow.

 **A/N** : Thank you for reading! More soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Now – Peter

"I told you hitting the snooze button again was a bad idea," El says as she helps Peter into his jacket.

"I know, I know." He quickly tightens his tie and buttons the jacket. "I just needed a few more minutes of sleep. I'm not going to be that late."

"You were restless all night. Worried about this morning?" She holds out his wallet and keys.

He takes them from her. "Yeah."

She cups one hand around his cheek. "I have complete faith in you, Peter Burke."

"I'm glad one of us does." He looks around the bedroom. "Where's my briefcase?"

"Already downstairs."

He tucks a strand of El's hair behind her ear. "You'll tell Neal's physical therapist about—"

"—his problems with those balance exercises. Yes. Got it, hon."

Peter is about to kiss his wife when a piercing scream from down the hall stops everything. In a heartbeat, he's in Neal's room, hitting the light switch with one hand and pulling his gun with the other, ready to take out the attacker who has obviously come back to finish the job.

But Neal's alone. There's no one on or under the bed. No one behind the curtains. No one in the closet.

Neal screams again, and El rushes to his side. "Neal, what's wrong?"

Peter holsters his gun when he realizes this attacker is one he can't shoot. Neal is writhing on the bed, clutching at his head, chest heaving.

"Neal?" Peter asks.

El's hands hover over Neal's arm, like she's afraid to do more harm than good. She looks frantically to Peter. "Should we call for an ambulance?"

"Hurts," Neal cries out, back arching, fists in his hair.

Peter locates Neal's pain pills and removes one from the bottle, spilling a few more on the carpet in his haste. He nudges his wife out of the way and supports Neal into an upright position. Getting the pill into Neal's mouth and convincing him to swallow it with water takes a few tries, but they manage. He prays for it to take effect quickly.

He didn't realize El was gone until she returns, turning off the lights and carrying two cold compresses. She presses one over Neal's eyes and the other to the back of his neck. At that, he stills. Every single one of his muscles is still tense and he's still whimpering with every other ragged exhale, but at least he's not making it worse with the thrashing.

"Breathe, Neal," Peter says softly. He presses two fingers against the pulse point in Neal's neck and feels a jackhammer in his veins. "Breathe."

"Should we call his neurologist?" El asks without looking up. "What if something's wrong?"

Before Peter can answer, Neal gags and rolls to his side before losing the contents of his stomach, including the pain pill. As soon as he's done, he starts sobbing. Not whimpering. Not crying. Out-and-out _sobbing_.

"We're taking him to the ER. Call Dr. Schneider and tell her we're on the way."

Peter picks Neal up and carries him out of the room. The movement must wreck Neal's fragile equilibrium, but Peter is too concerned with getting Neal to the car and to people who can help to worry about that.

Neal clutches at Peter's tie and jacket and chest and buries his sobs in his shoulder. Each sob tears at Peter's heart. When he finds the guy responsible for this, he's going to tear him limb from limb with his own two hands on the spot.

He places Neal in the backseat with El and hurries around to the driver's seat. As he starts the car, his gaze falls on the clock.

The meeting with the Marshals is going to have to wait.

###

A shot of morphine takes Neal's pain away, leaving him quiet and still. There's an IV in the crook of his right elbow and a pulse oximeter on the tip of his left pointer finger. His head is turned toward Peter, El, and his neurologist, but his eyes are closed.

"I'm ordering a CT scan just to be safe, but I think I already found the cause of Neal's headache. Did he miss some of his medications yesterday?" Dr. Schneider asks.

Peter looks to El. "I don't think so. I seem to remember him taking them after dinner, like usual."

"Most didn't show up in his blood tests, and the ones that did were way too low. I know mistakes happen, but it's really important that Neal doesn't miss any of his doses. The beta-blocker, the anti-seizure medication, the anti-inflammatory…a missed dose of any one of those combined with the lingering effects of the injury could lead to a headache this bad."

"We'll make sure it doesn't happen again," El says.

Dr. Schneider smiles. "I know you will. As long his CT scan is clear and he's feeling okay, he should be discharged this afternoon."

Peter shakes the woman's hand. "Thank you, doctor."

Once the three of them are alone, El adjusts Neal's pillow, re-aligning his head so he won't wake up with a stiff neck, before taking one of the seats next to the bed.

"Is it bad that I'm glad he won't remember that pain?"

Peter drops into the other seat. "Not at all." Neal's not a stranger to headaches or ER visits, but that screaming, those sobs…Peter wishes he could forget those, too.

She intertwines her fingers with his and thumbs at the smooth surface of his wedding ring. "We'll have to be more careful."

Peter nods once. Careful.

A few hours later, he helps Neal back into the house and up the stairs. The younger man is compliant and heavy-limbed, like usual after morphine. Peter tucks him in between the covers. He cleans up the mess they made this morning, straightening the curtains he tore apart in his search for danger, picking up the notebook from its resting place against the nightstand, feeling under the bed until he locates the pen that goes with it. He's righting a few knocked-over pill bottles when his eyes fall on Neal's daily pill container.

The translucent plastic has a section for each day, morning and night. Peter thinks back to when he checked on Neal the night before. His water bottle was a little less than half full, so Peter filled it. When he placed it on the nightstand, he remembers being grateful the evening box with the "T" on it was already empty, because Neal was sound asleep. Waking him to take pills when he's confused and lethargic is no fun for anyone.

But now that box with the "T" isn't empty. It's full of pills. The pills Peter _swore_ Neal took.

This used to happen around Neal before the accident. Things disappearing and reappearing and generally not adding up. It usually meant Neal was hiding something. But that part of Neal's life is over. That can't be what this is. Maybe Peter was too worried about the Marshals to pay close attention last night.

When he looks at Neal, he expects him to be asleep, but blue eyes are tracking his movements. Peter sits on the edge of the bed.

"Looks like we did forget your pills. Sorry about that."

"It's okay. I forget a lot of things."

"Yeah, but I'm supposed to remember the important ones for you." He slides the too-big hospital bracelet off Neal's wrist. "How are you doing?"

"Better."

"Good. Are you hungry?"

Neal shakes his head against the pillow. Another side effect of pain medication. He's losing weight he doesn't have to lose.

El sticks her head in the door, cell phone pressed to her ear. "Neal? It's Mozzie. Are you feeling up to a visitor?"

Peter wants to protest, partly because protesting Mozzie is natural, mostly because Neal needs rest, but Moz always brings good food and somehow gets Neal to eat when Peter and El can't. He keeps his protest to himself.

"Yeah. For a little while."

She smiles and heads back into the hall, continuing her conversation.

Peter stands, dropping Neal's hospital bracelet in the garbage can. "I'll let you get some rest before Mozzie gets here."

"Thanks, Peter."

He pats Neal's shoulder and heads downstairs.

El is going through the mail, but stops long enough to smile up at him. "He okay?"

"Yeah. His pills from last night are right there on the nightstand."

She frowns. "I can't believe we forgot. We both checked on him before bed. One of us should have noticed."

They're interrupted by a knock at the door. Stachmo barks once in response.

"Already?" Peter asks.

El heads toward the door. "You know Moz. He was probably on his way before he even picked up the phone."

"I suppose I should be pleased that he called this time."

"And that he's knocking," she calls over her shoulder.

"Good afternoon, Suit, Mrs. Suit," Moz says as he walks inside, weighed down by several plastic bags.

"Hey Moz," El says. "Oh my gosh, what did you bring? It smells amazing."

Peter's own stomach growls at the scent of basil and garlic, now heavy in the air.

"Brooklyn's best Italian. I brought a plate for each of you," he says as he hands a bag to Elizabeth, "and a sampling of light yet delicious morsels for our poor invalid."

El kisses Mozzie's cheek. "You're the best. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Enjoy your lunch. I'll see myself upstairs."

"Wait a second, Moz," Peter says once El is in the kitchen, unpacking their lunch.

Mozzie stops on the third step and turns. "Ooo, a height advantage! We should have all of our conversations standing right here."

He rolls his eyes and glances around to make sure neither his CI nor his wife are within earshot. "Are you _sure_ you don't know anything about Neal's attack? Or what he was doing at that warehouse?"

"I knew nothing the last time you asked, I know nothing now, I'll tell you if that changes. We've been through this."

"Forgive me for thinking that you might have a slight tendency to lie."

"Not about this." He nods in Neal's direction. "Not about his safety."

It was sincere enough that Peter had no choice but to believe him. "Okay. And hey, he's had a rough morning. No hypnosis or shock therapy or whatever other weird strategies you're trying to get his memory back."

Moz scoffs. "Suit, I would never."

Peter points right at him. " _That_ was a lie."

The bald man shrugs. "Perhaps. We'll take it easy today. Bon appétit, suit."

He sighs and watches a second criminal walk into his guest bedroom.

Life is so weird sometimes.

He's about to join El when his phone vibrates in his pocket. The display shows a number for the US Marshals, probably calling to reschedule.

Getting out of today's meeting was huge, but Neal won't be in the ER every day. He sticks the phone back in his pocket and wonders how long he can stall.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the delayed update! Thank you for your patience.

Also, several people have asked if this is permanent injury, or if Neal will recover. Spoiler alert: there is a light at the end of this particular traumatic-brain-injury tunnel. But first…more h/c. Thank you for reading!

Then – Neal

There was a smiley face balloon tied to Neal's chair and a donut box on his desk with the words "Welcome Back, Caffrey" written in loopy blue letters.

"Aw, someone missed you," Peter said, clapping Neal on the shoulder.

"Go figure," he said. Diana appeared at his side, and he motioned to his desk. "Are you responsible for this?"

"Jones, too. Good to have you back, Caffrey," she gave him a quick, tight hug.

"It's been entirely too quiet around here without you," Jones added with one-armed hug of his own.

"Thank you both. I appreciate it." He took a seat at his desk and opened the box. "And I hope you don't expect me to eat all of these by myself."

"Thought you'd never ask," Jones said, not hesitating to take a donut with sprinkles from the box.

Neal removed his sunglasses and immediately wanted to put them back on. The fluorescent lights and large windows shot daggers of pain through his head. He blinked hard a few times, willing his eyes to adjust, and thanked the weather gods that he'd chosen to come back to work on a cloudy day.

"Okay?" Peter asked.

He wondered how many times he was going to hear that question today. He slipped his sunglasses into the top drawer of his desk and powered on his computer. "Yeah."

"Good. I'll let you get settled for a bit. I'm sure you have e-mails to go through. Let me know when you're ready, and we'll get you up to speed with what we're working on."

As the computer booted up, Neal noticed something different about the screen. "What's this?" he asked, pulling at a screen attached to the monitor.

"That's a welcome back gift from El. It's supposed to reduce the glare from the screen. She read about it online. Thought it might help."

"I'm sure it will." He took out his notebook and made a note to thank El, because there was no guarantee he'd remember to do it later.

"Oh, and this is from me." Peter slid a brand new notebook across the desk to him.

"Another notebook?"

Peter nodded. "Since you'll be writing down potentially sensitive information, we'll need to keep this notebook secure and separate from your personal one."

Neal fanned the pages with his thumb. Blank. Empty. "Thanks, Peter."

"You're welcome." He took a blueberry donut from the box. "And you should definitely eat one of these. El hasn't let you near sugar in weeks. Something about it being inflammatory. But what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Got it," Neal said, wondering if Peter noticed the way the suit that used to fit him perfectly was now too loose around the shoulders and waist. He selected a plain glazed donut and took a bite, but between the headache, pain medication, and first-day jitters, he was less than hungry.

He dove into his inbox, which had a notification alerting him it was almost full. Though it didn't look like anyone had e-mailed him directly in weeks, he still received department-wide e-mails. He went through the oldest ones first, deleting anything irrelevant or outdated.

He winced when he got to an e-mail with his own name in the subject line. It was from Peter, informing the department about his attack. Yes, his notebook explained the head injury and its repercussions, but not like this. Not in this way that made it sound like he had been closer to dead than alive. He saved that e-mail, just in case. He also ran across several messages from Peter telling the department he'd be out of the office. He wondered how much paid time off Peter had burned through.

An hour later, Neal's inbox was up-to-date, he'd been welcomed back about a thousand times, and his head was pounding.

Right on cue, Peter appeared with a bottle of water and a small white pill. "How's it going?" he asked.

Neal swallowed the pill and some water. "Made it through e-mail."

"Doing okay?"

"Head hurts a little, but yeah."

Peter frowned. "We need to stay on top of that. Do you want to take a break for a few minutes?"

He grabbed his notebook, no longer empty thanks to a few notes he'd pulled from his e-mails. "No. I'm good. Let's do this."

"Jones, Diana. Conference room. Let's catch Caffrey up." Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "This case is right up your alley."

It turned out the rest of the team had been working on a forgery case for the past week. They gave him the basics, spouting off information so quickly his hand started to cramp while he wrote it all down. Peter offered for him to type his notes instead, but even with the screen cover he wasn't sure his headache could handle the glare.

"So, what do you think?" Peter asked when they ran out of information to share. There was hope in his tone. Not just that Neal could help with this particular case, but that things could go back to normal or something approximating normal.

Neal had no doubt he would have been able to figure out this case before the accident. It felt like the answer to catching the guy was right in front of him. The problem was that names and time frames and details swirled in his mind, pushing that answer outside his reach.

He flipped back through his notes and found that he'd already forgotten what he'd written on the first page. "What kind of ink did Shafer use?"

"Standard laser printer ink. Nothing incriminating there," Diana said.

"And what was his alibi the night of the sale?"

There was a pause just long enough to make Neal look up. He caught the tail end of a glance between Peter and the other two agents.

"Claims he was at a restaurant in Brooklyn. Security footage from the area confirms he entered and exited when he says he did, but we don't think he stayed," Jones said, but there was something off about his tone. Something cautious. Something slow.

Neal flipped through his notes and spotted the problem. The shortened version of what Jones had just said was written there in his own handwriting. "Shit. You already told me that." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Peter said quickly. "We just threw a lot of information at you. Remember, we've been on this for a week, you've been on it for an hour."

Neal scoffed. "That's not the damn problem, and you know it."

Peter cleared his throat. "Can you two give us a few minutes?"

"Sure," Jones said. They both stood.

"Yell if you need anything." Diana closed the conference room door on their way out.

"How bad is your headache?" Peter asked.

"I'm fine," Neal grumbled.

"Come on, Neal. It's just you and me. Be honest. Your memory is slipping. Is it from pain or being tired, or something else?"

He let out a long sigh and toyed with the spiral of the notebook. "I think it's just a lot." He shrugged. "A lot to take in. A lot to keep in."

Peter nodded. "That's fair. Is it too much? If so, I can take you home. You've already done so well today."

If he quit now, he'd have to re-learn all of this tomorrow. Today would be a waste. "No," he said. "I'm fine."

"Stop that. You're not fine. And it's—"

"Stop treating me like a goddamn kid!" he yelled, which caused him to wince at the sound of his own voice, which proved Peter's point that he was not, in fact, fine. But he wasn't ready to quit. Not yet.

He sighed and pointedly avoided looking at the hurt expression on Peter's face. "Look, I don't want to go home. Can I just sit in here and look over everything?" It was quiet in the conference room and mostly dark since they'd closed the blinds and left half of the fluorescent lights off. Maybe it would be enough to get himself together.

"If that's what you really want."

"It is."

Peter hesitated a second longer, but didn't say anything else before leaving the room.

Neal allowed himself a minute. A minute to put his head in his hands and feel frustrated and sorry for himself and angry with his attacker and with himself a little bit, too. Then he opened the notebook to the start of their meeting and started reading.

Unfortunately, the longer he read, the more his head pounded. The more his head pounded, the more confusing things became, until he couldn't remember why he was reading this notebook in the first place. The more confusing things became, the more anxious and dizzy and nauseous he felt.

There was a knock at the door, and Neal looked up to see a blurry version of Diana. What was she doing here? And why did he feel so terrible?

"Just checking on you," she said. "Need anything?"

Did he need something? He didn't know what to tell her.

Blurry Diana blurry frowned. "Caffrey? Are you okay?"

Was he getting the flu? Nothing made sense.

"Peter!" Diana yelled.

Neal covered his ears and tried to get up, to get away from the yelling, but his legs wouldn't hold him up. He collapsed to the ground. It felt like the air was water and he had to swim to stay afloat, but he was too tired. Then there were hands on him and more voices and he let himself drown in the darkness.

###

Neal was reading the notebook when El walked into the guest bedroom, a smile on her face.

"You're awake," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Drugged," he said.

"Sorry about that. You were in a lot of pain, so we gave you the good stuff."

He grunted and turned to the last entry in the notebook. "I'm confused."

"About today?"

He nodded. "Yesterday's note said I was supposed to go back to the office today. I only wrote two sentences about being there. I don't remember what happened. Why didn't I write more?"

She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "It didn't go very well. You got a headache and were having trouble remembering things. You collapsed in the conference room." She bit her lip. "You also got in an argument with Peter."

He winced and closed his eyes. It felt like sleepwalking, like a nightmare he couldn't remember. "Tell him I'm sorry."

"You just did," Peter said from the door.

He opened his eyes again. "Peter. I'm—"

Peter held up a hand to stop him and sat on the bed next to his wife. "You were in pain and frustrated. I would have snapped, too."

He nodded once. "So, how embarrassing was it?

"The whole 'collapsing at the office' thing? Well, Jones and I carried you out to the car. The only reason I didn't call nine-one-one is because you regained consciousness quickly."

"Thanks for that."

"Welcome. Everyone was so worried about you. They've been checking on you all day."

Checking on him. Not congratulating him or thanking him or asking for his assistance. "I didn't help with a case, did I?"

Peter toyed with a loose thread on the blanket. "No. You couldn't remember what we were telling you. I think it was just too much information for you to process. Took too much out of you."

Neal swallowed hard. "I can't go back to work, can I?"

Peter didn't meet his eyes. "Not with things the way they are right now, no. I don't think that would be a good idea."

After a beat, Neal nodded and took the pen from the nightstand. "I'm going to write some of this down."

"Okay, sweetie," El said. "When you're done, come down for dinner, okay? I made kale salads with grilled chicken."

He wasn't hungry, but he said, "Okay. Thanks."

"Yell if you need help with the stairs," Peter said before turning to follow his wife out of the room.

"Peter," Neal said, stopping him.

"Yeah?"

"Are we okay?"

"Of course. It was a rough day for you, but tomorrow will be better." He motioned to the notebook. "That's the important thing to remember."

Neal nodded and wrote and let himself believe that Peter was right.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sooo I finally made it far enough into White Collar to realize that my chapter with Neal's memory of his dad could never have happened…oops! One of the problems with writing fic before finishing the series… Sorry about that. Thank you for reading!

Now – Neal

Neal wakes to the sound of rustling plastic bags. When he opens his eyes, Mozzie is at the foot of the bed, arranging items on a tray.

"Hey," he says.

Mozzie glances up from his efforts. "Good morning! How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Great. Need your notebook?"

The nap hadn't been deep enough or long enough to erase the hospital trip from this morning. The memories are a little fuzzy, but whether that's from amnesia or morphine is up in the air. "No."

"Good." Mozzie scoops something from a Styrofoam container onto a plate. "I know you're probably not hungry after the morning you had, but I brought Italian."

He's far from hungry, but he sits up a little anyway. "Are Peter and El busy?"

"They're downstairs, eating the meals I brought for them." He arranges a roll and a pat of butter on a bread plate and places it at exactly ten o'clock relative to the dinner plate. "Why?"

"I need your help."

Mozzie looks up from his ministrations. "Help that doesn't involve Suit or Mrs. Suit?"

"Yes. I need to escape."

Mozzie removes a piece of tiramisu from a container, transfers it to a dessert plate, and places it on the dresser. "You only get this if you clean your plate."

"Did you hear me?"

He places a fork – real silverware, not the plastic stuff that's probably in the bottom of the bags – to the left of the dinner plate and carefully lines up a knife to the right, beneath the glass of water. "I'm assuming there's some explanation for this sudden and asinine need?"

Neal opens his notebook to the page where he learned about the Marshals and hands it over. "This explains everything better than I can."

Mozzie removes a cloth napkin from one of the bags. "If I read that, will you eat?"

"Yes."

He starts folding the napkin into something that resembles a swan.

"Moz, come on. None of that is necessary."

"Half of the eating experience occurs with your eyes. My chances of getting you to eat significantly increase without serving you slop out of a take-out container."

Neal rolls his eyes and waits for Mozzie to put on the finishing touches before placing the tray over his lap.

"There. Spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce, antipasto salad, light on the dressing, and grilled chicken. Nothing too heavy."

He picks up his fork. "It smells amazing. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Bon appetite." Mozzie waits for Neal to take a bite of the salad, gives a satisfied nod, then sits in the nearby armchair with the notebook.

Neal takes another bite. Despite his lack of hunger, he knows he needs food. Plus, he appreciates the trouble Moz went to and the trouble he's about to go through as long as this conversation goes as planned.

"The Marshals," Mozzie grumbles. "Can't they leave well enough alone?"

"I'm not working for the FBI and I was injured in some suspicious circumstances. I can hardly blame them."

Mozzie looks up. "I can blame them! There's no proof you were doing anything wrong."

"There's also no proof I _wasn't_ doing anything wrong."

"So what happened during Peter's meeting?"

"Keep reading."

Moz eyes the still-full plate. "Keep eating."

Neal sighs and takes a bite of spaghetti.

Mozzie returns his attention to the notebook. "Wait, am I reading this correctly? Did you pull a con on Peter and El?"

"Apparently I didn't take my pills last night, knowing it would cause a headache so bad Peter wouldn't be able to leave and meet the Marshals. It worked."

"Worked, but landed you in the hospital."

He shrugs. "It's fine. I won't remember the pain tomorrow."

Mozzie finishes reading and sets the notebook aside. "So I assume waiting to see what happens is not an option?"

He breaks off a piece of the roll and dabs half-heartedly at the butter. "I can't risk being put back in jail."

"Suit wouldn't let that happen."

"He doesn't have the final say."

"Are you going to eat that bread or just play with it?"

He pops the piece in his mouth. It tastes good, so he breaks off another piece. "There was a guy a few cells down from me. I called him Diabetic Dan. He was supposed to have a special diet. They were supposed to check his blood sugar often. There was supposed to be a nurse to help with his insulin. None of that happened. Or at least not consistently enough to make a difference. I lost count of the number of times he passed out. No one seemed to care. I think they thought he was easier to deal with that way."

"Inhumane," Mozzie says.

"Exactly. I can't let that happen to me. They won't give me medication on time. I don't even know if they'll let me have narcotics." He rolls the edge of the cloth napkin between his pointer finger and thumb. "Plus I'll have to wake up every morning with the brand new realization that I'm in jail. I'll never get used to it. It will never get easier. I'm not sure I can live through that."

"Understandable. But you think running is the solution?"

"I'll need your help." He takes a bite of the chicken, hoping it earns him a few bonus points. "I'll need you to get us to a new, secure location."

"But what about all of that you just said? The pills and the doctor appointments and your treatments. You need to be here for all of that."

"The treatments aren't working."

"Neal…"

"No. Stop. They're not working, and we both know it. No point sticking around for those. And as for the pills, I can forge prescriptions. Between that and escaping, it won't be the hardest thing we've ever done. Far from it."

The sound of distant laughter filters up from the kitchen. After all the drama Neal has caused today, it's nice to hear them laugh.

"What about them?" Mozzie asks. "Can you really leave them?"

He takes a deep breath. Fights back the "no" he really wants to say. "They're part of the reason I need to leave. They've completely upended their lives for me. I can't ask them to keep doing that day after day."

Mozzie stands and paces from the door to the bed and back again. "I don't like it, Neal. There are too many variables. Your health is too precarious. At the first sign of a problem, I'd have to drag you to the hospital, where they'd no doubt be looking for anyone with your description, at which point they _would_ put you in jail for running."

"There won't be any problems."

"Says the guy who just got out of the hospital!"

"Shh," Neal admonishes, holding up a hand and listening for any sign of approaching footsteps. It's quiet.

"There has to be another way," Mozzie says, still pacing.

Neal sets his fork down. "There isn't."

The older man stops. Turns. "There is if we play to your strengths."

"Strengths?"

"You're a con man, Neal."

"And?"

"Let's pull a con."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Sorry about the delayed update! Thank you for reading and for all of the kind words and encouragement thus far. Happy reading!

Now – Peter

It's déjà vu. Another morning. Another round of bracing himself to face a meeting with the Marshals, but this time they've also called in the DOJ. The added audience leads him to believe they've already made up their minds. As far as they're concerned, Neal is going back to jail. And probably soon.

If it didn't mean Neal going through pain, Peter would have hoped for another emergency room trip to get him out of this. But El made sure he took his pills last night, and Peter double and triple checked. Neal won't be in pain. Peter is out of ways to stall.

"Peter, Elizabeth," Neal yells from down the hall.

At least Neal _shouldn't_ be in pain. But that kind of yelling is never a good thing. Peter quickly rinses the toothpaste out of his mouth and runs into the hallway. "What's wrong?" he demands at the same time as El, who's running up the stairs.

Neal is standing in the hall, wearing pajama pants and a smile. "I think my memory is coming back."

"What?" El asks, one hand on her chest, catching panicked breath. "Oh my gosh, I thought something was wrong."

"Sorry." He bends down and pets Satchmo, who is also joining the family meeting in the hallway. "But I remember yesterday. That hasn't happened before, right? I usually forget everything by morning?"

"Right," Peter says, but for some reason he's hesitant to get too excited. "What do you mean you remember?"

"I remember yesterday." After one more Satchmo pet, he stands and looks at Peter with a hint of a smile on his lips. "You took me to an appointment." He turns to El. "You worked an event. A gallery opening. I was mad because you wouldn't let me go with you."

El laughs. "I told you, workers don't get a plus one! You really remember?"

"I really do."

Peter wants to believe him. He wants the hope that he sees in his wife's eyes. But it's been months without any hope, and this is so sudden and almost too good to be true. Plus, it's too soon after the mysteriously disappearing and reappearing pills incident. He's pretty sure he missed something then. He's not about to miss something now. "But you probably wrote both of those things in your notebook."

"Yes, but I _remember_ them. I remembered being there before I even looked at my notebook. I remember details I didn't write down."

He scratches his chin and thinks back to the day before. "Where did we stop on the way home from your appointment?"

Neal pauses just long enough to smile. "Gas station, right before the bridge. You procrastinated so long that the low fuel light came on."

El scoffs. "Peter Burke, aren't you the one who nags me when I let it go below a quarter of a tank?"

"That's in the winter, when the fuel lines can freeze! This is different. Besides, this is about Neal, not me." He turns his attention back to his CI. "What was the weather like yesterday?"

"Mild and partly sunny. Enough that I needed sunglasses. Hey, did you ever wonder the difference between partly sunny and mostly cloudy? Seems like they should be the same thing. Yesterday was both."

Neal definitely wouldn't have written down something that specific. He never writes down the little details because it takes long enough to write and read the big ones. Maybe he's right. Maybe his memory is returning. Peter wants to believe it. He really does… "Okay, one more question. Which teams did we watch play on TV last night?"

Neal rolls his eyes. "Not fair. I wouldn't remember that even without a traumatic brain injury."

Peter allows himself a small smile. So true. "Fine. What did El wear to her event?"

This time it's Neal's turn to smile in El's direction. "A stunningly beautiful blue silk dress that matched her eyes and definitely made her the most gorgeous woman in every room she walked into."

El pulls Neal into a hug. "You're too kind. And I'm so glad you remember."

"Okay, okay, enough shameless flirting with and hugging my wife," Peter says.

Neal laughs and lets go. "Sorry, but it's true." He glances over his shoulder at the clock on the guest room nightstand. "Give me like a half hour, okay?"

Peter wrinkles his forehead. "For what?"

"To get ready for work. I just need to shower and shave, and then—"

"You're not going to work," Peter says.

Neal frowns. "Why not? The problem before was that I couldn't remember anything, and trying to do so gave me a headache so bad I collapsed, right? I can remember now. That won't happen again."

As much as Peter wants to go along with this logic, to show the Marshals that Neal is exactly where he's supposed to be, he knows better. "This memory thing is a new development. We don't know if or how long it's going to last. It's great news, but I'm not putting your health or memory at risk by letting you push yourself too hard. Not after last time."

El loops her arm through Neal's. "I have to agree with Peter on this one. Tell you what, if you feel up to it this afternoon, I'll take you to that gallery. The owner invited me back for a private tour anytime. You can be my plus one on that."

After a pause, Neal nods, but he doesn't look as happy as he should after a sentence that involves the words "gallery" and "private tour". "Okay. But if my memory is still good and I feel okay tomorrow, I can go back to work?"

"Why are you so anxious to get back to the office?" Peter asks.

Neal bites his lip. Sleep-tousled hair falls over his forehead when he looks down at the ground. "I don't just want to get back to work. I want to get back to normal."

Guilt settles between Peter's shoulder blades. Things have changed. Neal has changed. A desire for normal is understandable. And if Peter can promise the Marshals and the DOJ that Neal is returning to work tomorrow…maybe even get a doctor's note to that effect… "We'll see how you're doing, and I want to talk to your doctor, but there's a chance you can return to the office. For half a day. As a trial."

Neal grins. "Sold." He turns to El. "Now tell me more about this 'private tour' thing…"

###

The meeting with the Marshals and DOJ went exactly as Peter hoped it would: quickly. Peter told them Neal would be returning to work the next day, apologized for wasting their time (without really meaning it), and answered their questions with more confidence than he felt.

Yes, he could definitely get a doctor's note clearing Neal to return to work.

Yes, Neal was without a doubt well enough to perform his duties as laid out in the original agreement.

No, there was still absolutely no reason to believe that anything suspicious surrounded Neal's attack.

The DOJ representative made some noise about extending Neal's sentence to exclude the time he'd been off work and mentioned introducing compound consequences if they ever learned that he'd been less than innocent in that warehouse, but Peter could worry about all of that later. He'd made it through the meeting and gotten them off his back. The rest could wait.

Currently, Peter is sitting at Dr. Schneider's desk, waiting for her to return from taking Neal to the office's lab. When Peter called Neal's neurologist after the meeting to update her on Neal's status and inquire about getting a note, she said she needed to see him and run a couple of basic tests before she could give the okay. Thankfully, there was a cancellation in her schedule, so she was able to see Neal at the end of the day.

Peter is running one finger along the wood grain in the surface of Dr. Schneider's desk when she returns and sits in her office chair behind the desk.

"There are a couple of patients ahead of him in the lab, but I got the feeling you'd like to talk to me without Neal around."

Peter smiles. "Your feeling is correct. I just want to get your honest thoughts on this sudden turn of events."

Dr. Schneider sighs and leans back in her chair. "Well, we know from before that his memory consolidation and capacity topped out at a day at best. He's clearly remembering longer than that."

"Right. But is there a chance that he'll wake up tomorrow and have forgotten everything? That his capacity is now just two or three or four days instead of one?"

"That fear is completely understandable, but thankfully not realistic. If he remembers this long, those memories have been cemented. They're not going anywhere."

"Good."

The doctor absently straightens a stack of files on her desk. "Now, that's not to say he's completely out of the woods. There's still a good chance he'll struggle with memory when he's in pain or overly tired, so you'll need to help make sure he stays on top of that."

"Of course."

"But other than that, he seems…fine."

The pause before the last word immediately catches Peter's attention. "You hesitated."

She looks up at him and smiles. "Sorry. Forgot I'm talking to an FBI agent. It's just that I've never seen someone's memory come back quite like this."

"What do you mean?"

"Usually it comes back slowly. Remembering things a little longer, remembering some things but still forgetting others. It's not usually all at once like this. But…"

A tiny bit of Peter's guilt over his suspicions loosens, but it's quickly replaced with fear over what Neal might be up to. "But what?"

She folds her hands on the desk. "But every single case of amnesia is different. Maybe Neal is just a lucky one."

The thing about Neal is that he doesn't need luck. Never has. He controls and manipulates situations to work in his favor. He's never sloppy enough to rely on luck. Not even now.

"Do you think he could be faking it?"

Dr. Schneider's eyebrows narrow. "Faking getting his memory back?"

"Yes."

"Why would he do that?"

"No clue. But do you think he is?"

She frowns. "Well, people's motivations are more your area of expertise than mine, but I don't see how he could."

Peter doesn't see how he could either, but there have been a lot of things he couldn't see with Neal over the years. That doesn't mean anything. "Right. Okay. Let me make sure I understand. It is medically possible that his memory suddenly came back all at once."

She nods. "With amnesia, almost anything is possible. Except on television when a second blow to the head brings back someone's memories. That's fiction."

He makes a note to mention that to Mozzie, just in case the man gets any bright ideas from too many soap operas. "But it's not _probable_ that his memory suddenly came back all at once."

"Am I going to get him in trouble based on what I say? Because he's my patient, and I really—"

Peter holds up a hand to stop her. "Trust me, I want Neal to be out of trouble even more than you do."

She nods once. "Then no, it's not probable."

There's a quick knock on the door before Neal opens it and flops down in the chair next to Peter. "The vampires have finished," he says, rolling his shirtsleeve down over his bandaged arm.

Peter forces a smile. "At least they aren't zombies."

"Bright side." He looks between Peter and Dr. Schneider. "So, did you get me a note? Can I go back to work?"

"As soon as the results of those blood tests come through, I'll send an electronically signed note to Peter. Desk work only. Nothing in the field."

"And half-days would be a good start, right?" Peter asks.

"Absolutely," Dr. Schneider says.

Neal nods. "I'll take what I can get. Are we good to go?"

"You're free. I'll see you in a few weeks, but call the office if you need anything before then. Look for that letter tonight."

They both thank Dr. Schenider. On the way home, Neal rambles on and on about the gallery tour. Peter nods and "uh huhs" like he usually does when El is talking about art, but really he's thinking about what Dr. Schneider said.

Possible.

Not probable.

There's definitely something strange surrounding Neal's returned memory. Peter just needs to figure out what, how, and why.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Just a tiny update to prove that I'm alive and haven't abandoned this story. Thank you for reading!

Now – Neal

The image Neal has of himself doesn't match the image of the man who stares back from the mirror. The mirrored man is too thin. Too pale. Too weak. For everyone else, these changes have been a slow progression since the injury. For Neal, it's a shock each morning when he wakes up and doesn't resemble the man he was before the attack, the only version of himself he remembers.

Now, he forces that shock aside and focuses on the in-ear transmitter in his right ear. His hair isn't even close to long enough to cover it, but it's still well hidden. He fiddles with the pen-shaped device in his pocket.

"Testing, testing, one, two, three," he says.

Mozzie's voice appears in his ear. "Loud and clear, my friend."

"Good." He takes a deep breath and tightens his tie. "This is going to work, right?"

"It worked yesterday, didn't it? We conned the suit. Now we're just conning a few more suits. And the Marshals. And the Department of Justice."

"Right." Neal straightens his jacket. "Moz, welcome to your first day at the FBI."

Mozzie makes a noise. "Sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little."

Neal ignores the comment and walks out of the bathroom into the FBI offices. There are no "welcome back" donuts this time, but everyone is glad to see him. He makes the rounds, says his hellos, and pours a cup of coffee before heading to his desk.

Peter approaches almost immediately and replaces the mug he just poured with a different one.

"What are you doing?" Neal asks.

"Decaf," Peter says.

He scoffs. "Peter, come on. My memory's back! Don't you think we can lessen the restrictions a little?"

In Neal's ear, Mozzie says, "Don't you dare. Your memory _isn't_ back. One wrong move and I _will_ pick up the phone and tell Peter the truth."

Neal bites back the "traitor" comment he can't make.

"No can do," Peter says. "Memory or not, you're still healing."

Neal sighs, takes a sip, and makes a face. "Mmm. Decaf," he says, more for Mozzie's benefit than anything. "Hot brown water."

"Enjoy. Hey, speaking of memory, do you remember what I did with the note I printed out from Dr. Schneider?"

Neal doesn't remember. He doesn't have any clue what note Peter's talking about or where it might be, and only knows Dr. Schneider's name from a glance through his notebook this morning. Thankfully, that's what Mozzie's here for.

"In the glove box," Mozzie says.

"It's in your glove box," Neal echoes.

Several expressions cross Peter's face in rapid succession – surprise, discontent, something unidentifiable – leaving him looking vaguely constipated. Does Peter suspect something? Probably. Peter always suspects something. But Neal will just have to avoid being suspicious.

"That's right," Peter says. "I'll have to get it out of the car when I take you home at lunch. In the meantime," Peter taps his toe against a box next to Neal's desk, "this is for you."

"What is it?" Neal asks.

"Your task for the morning. Some old files. I need you to go through and pull anything dated more than five years ago to be scanned into long-term storage."

"Peter, that's clerical work."

"No, it's non-stressful work that will keep you away from your computer and from having to remember too much. Trying to prevent a repeat of what happened last time you came to the office."

Mozzie's voice appears in his ear. "Take it, Neal. The Marshals just need you to work. They don't need to know what _kind_ of work it is. This will be easier on you. And me."

Neal sighs. "Fine."

"Good." Peter motions to an empty box. "You can put the old papers in there. How's your head?"

He considers. His notebook suggests that he's been having some headache-free days lately, and today is one of them. "It's good. No pain."

"Great. Let me know if that changes, okay?"

"Will do."

Peter claps Neal on the shoulder once and heads up to his office.

A few seconds later, Mozzie's voice comes across. "My morning tai chi practice beckons. Cough once if you need me to pay attention to something. Cough twice if you sustain a life-or-death paper cut."

Neal coughs three times just to annoy him.

"Funny," Mozzie says. "For that, I hope you do get a paper cut. From card stock."

With an eye roll, Neal gets to work. It's tedious, monotonous work that makes time stand still, but it doesn't make his head hurt. He's not even half way through the box when Peter calls Jones and Diana up to the conference room for a meeting.

Neal immediately looks up. A meeting would be such a welcome break right about now…

"No," Peter says in the same tone he uses when Satchmo's been digging up the yard. "Do not give me those puppy dog eyes. You have work to do and don't need the stress of this case."

"Aw, come on, Peter. Just let me listen in. I won't even take notes or anything. It'll be like listening to the radio. It'll be good to give my eyes a break." He doesn't mention that it's not so much his eyes that need a break as his attention span.

"Your eyes? Is your head starting to hurt?"

With that, Neal knows he's winning this battle. "Just feels like I need a little break, that's all."

Peter sighs. "Fine. But leave your notebook there."

After a Mozzie-alerting single cough, Neal heads to the conference room and happily takes a seat.

###

Jones delivers the details of the case. It started with a bunch of diamonds, stolen right out from under the distributors. They were fenced to a shady jewelry storeowner, but stolen again from him almost immediately. The storeowner reported them stolen, but not until weeks after they'd disappeared, probably hoping his missing diamonds wouldn't be connected to the first theft. Clearly the guy didn't give the FBI enough credit.

"Could it have been the same thief twice?" Diana asks.

"No way," Mozzie says in Neal's ear. "Everyone knows you don't touch the same goods twice."

Neal doesn't repeat the information, trusting that his colleagues will arrive at that conclusion on their own.

Sure enough, Peter says, "Always possible, but not likely." He flips through a few pages in the file. "They had completely different MOs and were in completely different areas."

"What about the fence?" Jones asks. "He'd already know where they were. If it seemed easy to lift them and sell them again to someone else, it'd be twice the pay-out."

"Hmm," Mozzie says. "Could be brilliant or suicidal, depending on the fence. Or this could all just be a coincidence."

Something nags at the back of Neal's brain. Not pain. Not the blankness that plagues him when he tries to think back to the details written in his notebook.

A memory. A warehouse. A female voice whispering in his ear, breath warm on his neck. A jolt of panic. A metal crowbar in strong hands, lifted high over his head.

"Neal? Neal!"

It's enough to snap him back to attention. And even though it was Mozzie's voice in his ear, all eyes in the room are on him.

"Neal, what's wrong?" Peter asks.

It's only then that he realizes he's gripping the edge of the table, heart trying to make an escape from his rib cage, breaths coming too fast and shallow.

He should tell Peter that his head hurts. That he can't feel his fingers and there are bees buzzing around his brain. Instead he says, "There were thirty-six diamonds."

Peter doesn't look at the file. Doesn't stop staring at Neal.

But Jones checks the papers and says, "That's right. Three dozen."

"Hey, I didn't feed you that," Mozzie says. "What do you know? What aren't you telling me, Neal?"

"What's _wrong_?" Peter asks again. Demands.

Neal tastes something metallic, like he's been chewing on pennies, and swallows hard. "I remember who attacked me."

Then everything goes dark.


	10. Chapter 10

Now – Peter

To say Neal suddenly looks terrible is an understatement. He's breathing hard and gripping the conference room table like it has replaced gravity.

"What's _wrong_?" Peter asks around the panic that's threatening to make his throat close up.

"Boss, should we—"

"I remember who attacked me," Neal says. Then he collapses forward with an unnatural grunt, smacking his head on the edge of the table on the way down.

Jones catches him a second too late. He and another agent lower Neal to the ground.

"Neal!" Peter cries out, pushing his way over to his CI. Blood from the gash on his forehead curls around his eyebrow and down his temple. "Someone get a first aid kit!" He puts his hands on Neal's shoulders, but the younger man doesn't open his eyes.

"Muscles are rigid," Jones says. "I think he's going into a seizure. Get these chairs out of the way. Help me get him on his side."

Other agents dive into action, but Peter stands frozen in place, heart pounding in his throat as Neal starts shaking. But that's not the right word. Shaking is what happens when you're cold or nervous or laughing. This is something more intense, something violent and electric and terrifying. All Peter can think about is a scene from an old movie where they stuck a thick leather wallet in an epileptic's mouth. He can't remember the title of the movie, just thick southern accents and salt-and-pepper hair. The wallet thing is more urban legend than first aid, but hell if Peter can get that image out of his mind and replace it with something useful.

"Peter, give me your jacket," Jones says, already balling his own suit jacket under Neal's head to cushion the repeated blows against the floor.

That simple direction is enough to snap Peter out of his trance. He removes his jacket and places it on top of Clinton's, wincing when his fingers brush against the too-tight muscles and tendons in Neal's neck. "Did someone call 911?"

"Ambulance will be here in less than ten," Diana says.

Jones loosens Neal's tie, and Peter nods. He hovers helplessly, wanting to comfort Neal, but knowing touch won't help right now.

"Has he had seizures before?" Jones asks.

Dr. Schneider mentioned the word "seizure" back in the first few days after the attack, but those conversations also included "cerebral hemorrhage" and "cerebral edema" and other words Peter didn't want to think about. "After the attack or after surgery. Maybe both."

Someone offers to meet the paramedics downstairs. Someone else drops off a first-aid kit, but Neal is convulsing too much for them to do anything about the head wound right now. Soon it's just Peter and Jones and Neal in the room. Peter starts silently counting the seconds, just to have something to focus on other than the brain-melting panic. When he reaches 100, he starts counting slower because the large numbers are terrifying rather than calming.

"There we go," Jones says when the convulsions start to slow.

Relief floods Peter's veins. "Caffrey?" he asks as he removes gauze from the first-aid kit and presses it to his cut. There's no response other than residual grunts and snorts for breath. Neal doesn't open his eyes.

"He's okay." Jones has two fingers against the pulse point in Neal's neck. "He'll probably be out of it for a little while, but he's okay."

"I called El," Diana says when she re-enters the room. "She's calling Neal's neurologist and will meet you at the hospital."

"Thanks, Di."

"You're welcome, Boss."

Neal's eyes open and he thrashes a few times, maybe trying to get up, but Jones calms him and keeps him still. His eyes fall shut again.

"You knew exactly what to do," Peter says.

Jones shrugs. "Had a cousin with epilepsy. Learned young."

Peter lifts a corner of the gauze, but the wound is still bleeding pretty good. "I think he's going to need stitches."

Jones makes a "tsk" sound. "Caffrey, Caffrey. You've really outdone yourself this time."

The paramedics arrive, and Peter tells them everything he can about Neal's history and medication. They put an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and lift him onto a stretcher. While they're strapping him down, Neal's blue eyes open for longer this time, dazed and unsteady.

"Neal?" Peter says. The CI blinks hard, but doesn't focus. "You had a seizure, Neal. They're taking you to the hospital. El and I will be there."

"He's secure," one of the paramedics says. "Let's roll."

Then Neal is wheeled down the hall. Peter takes a few seconds to pull himself together before following.

"Hey, Boss," Diana says before Peter can get very far.

She has two blood-stained suit jackets draped over her arm and is holding out two other items in her hands.

"These were on the ground where Caffrey was lying."

Peter takes both items. The first is a pen. He has no clue what the second item is, or at least he doesn't until he realizes that the first isn't just a pen. It's a transmitter. And the small, oddly-shaped item is an in-ear listening device. Not one he recognizes from the FBI, though. Damn.

He fits the device into his ear and holds the "pen" up toward his mouth. "Mozzie?"

No response.

"Mozzie, I know you can hear me."

A familiar voice comes through. "I'm only speaking up because I'm worried. What happened to Neal?"

"He had a seizure. We're on our way to the hospital. I suggest you meet us there, too."

###

"We're going to admit him for tests and observation," Dr. Schneider says. She, Peter, and El are standing in the ER hallway just outside Neal's room so their conversation won't wake him.

El nods. "When I got here, he was so disoriented. Even more than normal." She worries at the handle of her purse and glances back at Neal.

"That's to be expected following a seizure. The confusion, headache, and drowsiness should pass. But we'll keep a close eye on him."

Peter drapes an arm over his wife's shoulders and pulls her close to his side. "Will there be any lasting effects, either from the seizure or the blow to the head?"

"Most likely not." Dr. Schneider shifts the small laptop she carries from one arm to the other. "While seizures are scary, they don't usually cause damage. We just want to make sure nothing caused the seizure other than stress. And while Neal's wound bled a lot, I think it's more superficial than anything. But we'll do all of the relevant tests just to be safe."

That makes Peter breathe a little easier. "Thank you, Dr. Schneider."

She smiles. "You're welcome. I'm heading up to see a few more patients, but I'll be by to check on Neal once he's settled in a room. Let the nurses know if you need anything before then." She peeks in Neal's room one more time and heads down the hall.

El lets her head fall against Peter's chest. "He's going to be okay."

He kisses her temple. "Yeah. He will be. But I'm glad they're doing tests as a precaution."

"I'm going to go sit with him. Do you need to call work or get a cup of coffee or anything?"

He's about to say no, that he's fine and will join her, but then he spots Mozzie down the hall, shiftily studying a "Cover Your Cough" bulletin board in both English and Spanish. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"

El squeezes his hand before heading back into Neal's room.

Peter walks to Mozzie and faces the bulletin board along with him. "Let me guess. Neal's memory isn't really back, so you were listening and feeding him what he couldn't remember."

Mozzie's gaze drops to the shiny floor, where he scuffs the toe of his shoe against the linoleum. "If I would have known it was going to cause a seizure, I wouldn't have let him do it."

"I should hope not," Peter all but growls. "What were you thinking? How long did you two seriously think you could keep this up? And why would Neal lie to me? Why would he tell me he's fine and ready to go back to work when he so clearly—"

"Because if he didn't go back to work, the Marshals would have put him in jail," Mozzie says. "He can't go to jail, Suit. You saw what happened after a morning at the office. Can you imagine what would happen after even an hour behind bars?"

He can't imagine. Or at least he doesn't want to. "Wait, how did you know about the Marshals?"

"Neal told me."

Peter waits for a continuation, but doesn't get one. "And how did Neal know?"

Mozzie sighs and turns to face Peter, arms folded over his chest. "He overheard you talking to Mrs. Suit."

Oh. Neal knew. It all makes sense now. The "missed" pills and the desire to return to work and the mysteriously returning memory. It was all Neal's effort to delay or appease the Marshals. It was a con. But at what cost? "Damn it, Mozzie, he needs you to be a voice of reason right now, not an accomplice! If he comes to you with some dangerous and illegal plan, because yes, listening in on private FBI conversations is illegal, you need to—"

"He wanted me to help him leave."

The rest of Peter's sentence tumbles to the floor, unsaid. "What? Leave?"

There's pain in Mozzie's blue eyes. "Leave the Marshals and the FBI. Leave New York. Leave you."

The words are a punch to the gut that leave Peter speechless.

"That's the only reason I agreed to help him," Mozzie says. "Because he didn't see a way out from the Marshals besides leaving, and I couldn't bear to let that happen. Not now. I gave him another option."

Peter nods slowly. "Thank you. For keeping him here."

"Sorry it didn't work out as planned."

Something twinges at the back of Peter's brain. Maybe Neal and Mozzie's plan didn't work out as they intended, but maybe it can still be salvaged. They have a clue about Neal's attack, and so does Mozzie. Maybe the clue can be used to put whoever did this behind bars for good. To prove Neal's innocence. If the Marshals knew for sure that Neal was innocent in the attack, they'd have to back down at least a little. Wouldn't they? He checks to make sure no one in the hall is tuned in to their conversation and leans in toward Mozzie. "Do you know about those diamonds? Do you know who attacked Neal now?"

"The diamonds mean nothing to me. I still have no clue."

The honesty behind the words makes Peter's stomach sink. "And since Neal's memory isn't actually back and he didn't write anything down before the seizure, he's not going to know, either."

"Right. But if you bring up the case again and say the same things to him that you said before—"

"What, you mean the things that stressed him out enough to send him into convulsions in the middle of our conference room floor? Yeah, I don't think that's happening anytime soon."

An employee pushing an empty gurney walks past, wheels whining against the floor. Mozzie sighs and scratches at the top of his head. "Let me listen to the details again. See if I can deduce anything. Ask around."

"Oh, so you _recorded_ private FBI conversations?"

Mozzie rolls his eyes. "Calm down. Most of the conversations I recorded were about football, and I could not care less. Do you want my help or not?"

How long will it be before the Marshals find out Neal is still unable to work? Probably not very. As much as Peter hates to admit it, he doesn't know what to do next. He needs Mozzie's help. "Okay. See what you can find out. But as soon as you're finished, delete all instances of those recordings."

"Consider it done. But Suit, if I find out Neal _isn't_ innocent…"

Peter hardens his jaw. Neal can't go back to jail. He can't. "I saw how terrified he looked when we talked about the case. There wasn't any guilt behind that fear. I have to believe he's innocent."

Mozzie hesitates for a second before nodding. "Can I see him before I go?"

"Of course. He's sleeping, though."

"I won't wake him."

Peter motions for Mozzie to lead the way into the room. Neal is still asleep. The eye beneath the thick, white bandage on his forehead is already starting to bruise.

"Mozzie?" El whispers. "What are you doing here? Did Peter call you?"

"Something like that," Mozzie says. "How's he doing?"

El quietly relays the information Dr. Schneider gave them. "He's going to be okay."

Mozzie nods. "Good." He pinches the stray end of Neal's hospital bracelet between two fingers. "He doesn't wasn't to be a burden to you two."

"He's not," Peter says immediately.

"Can you blame him for feeling that way?"

There's not much Peter can say to that.

Mozzie pats the bed, and Neal doesn't stir. "Be well, mon frère."


End file.
